


Cicatrix

by paperfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bottom Lucifer, Gore, M/M, Scarification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperfeathers/pseuds/paperfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something Lucifer wants from Sam. Sam's not sure he can give it. Gift-fic for itallstartedwithdefenestration (samaelmorningstar).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cicatrix

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itallstartedwithdefenestration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/gifts).



Sam’s body is a tapestry of scars.

They’re raised white whorls under Lucifer’s fingers, hard ridges of rough-healed tissue marring the tanned expanse of Sam’s skin. He manages to hide them well enough under long-sleeved shirts and jackets, but they still peek through the edges of his collars, the ends of his sleeves. Testaments to survival, points on the well-worn map that was Sam’s soul. Lucifer touches them with fascination, tracing the grooves with a mixture of reverence and quiet curiosity.

Nick’s body is a blank canvas by comparison. Not without its own stories: There’s a keloid on his calf from a childhood accident. A thick white line above his hairline from a hiking trip gone wrong. And on his right pectoral muscle, the distorted remnant of the bullet wound from the night his family was killed. No trace of Lucifer’s radiation burns remain. The body is  as whole as it was before Nick gave the archangel his consent. 

The unmarked smoothness infuriates Sam, he knows. Lucifer feels his frustration most nights. Limbs tangled together, mortal fire and divine grace locked in a war neither could win. Sam rakes his nails against Lucifer’s back, raising welts that disappear seconds later, sucks bruises on his neck and collarbone that never last for more than an hour. Lucifer tries to make up for it by being pliant, allowing Sam to press him to the sheets, cover his body with his, thrust into him and damn near tear him in half. Letting himself be consumed by teeth and hands and a deep fierce need for control. Afterwards they lie together, face to face, Sam’s guilt peering through the cracks and Lucifer’s so thoroughly exasperated by it all that he has to take Sam in his arms and love him again.

What they have between them is something beyond either of their control. Violent, possessive, terrifyingly tender and so, so fragile that Lucifer can’t - won’t - let something like this fracture it. A decision had to be made, and after much deliberation, Lucifer decides it’s on him.

Sam’s reading in bed when he appears in his motel room. Something about Lorelei, Lucifer notes. He’s shirtless, the motel room’s harsh lighting flinging the scars into stark relief. As always, Lucifer waits for him to make the first move. It’s not long before Sam puts the book aside and drags him forward by the belt loops.

Sam doesn’t say anything at first, only rests his head against Lucifer’s chest. His hair’s damp, fresh from the shower, and the unidentifiable motel shampoo fragrance underlined by Sam’s natural scent tickles Lucifer’s nose.  Lucifer’s hands idly trace well-worn paths and patterns on Sam’s shoulders and back. Such moments between them, initially few and far-between, have become increasingly common as of late. Quiet interludes filled with softness interspersed between the bloody chapters of their lives. Lucifer loves them. Loves knowing that with him, Sam feels safe. That his muscles can go lax and his eyes slip shut without fear that anything will shatter his peace, protected as he hadn’t been since he was a child. Rage flares through him momentarily at the thought, colored with not a little remorse. John Winchester may have been the one who deprived his boys of a proper childhood, but it was through Lucifer’s orders that they’d been forced into the hunting lifestyle in the first place.

It only deepens his resolve to make amends to Sam in whatever way he could. He only hopes it would be enough. His fingers rest against the nape of Sam’s neck, hesitantly tugging at the small hairs growing there. “Sam?” He rests his chin on the top of Sam’s head. Sam makes a small huff of annoyed amusement and swats the hand away. Lucifer can feel his smile through his shirt.

“Sam,” more insistent. This time, Sam looks up. There’s a concerned furrow between his eyebrows that Lucifer instinctively tries to smooth out with his thumb.

“What’s up, Luce?” Lucifer feels something twist in his gut. It’s odd, unpleasant, and from Nick’s memories he recognizes it as anxiety. But it’s too late to turn back now. So he forges on ahead.

“I want to give you something.” At that, some wariness bleeds into Sam’s expression. But his hands remain where they are on Lucifer’s hips, neither does he pull away. Lucifer knows well enough that he’s treading a line here. What he’s about to offer Sam can either break their bond - or make them equals.

He gathers light and grace into his palm, weaving strands of it together with long-forgotten words in Enochian. When he finishes there’s a knife in his palm. Smaller than an ordinary angel blade, the edge of it gleaming with lethal sharpness. He offers it to Sam hilt-first.

“This is for you.”

Sam’s wariness turns to confusion.

“What?”

Lucifer sighs, quietly bemoaning the human need for words.  “This knife is for you. I made it, it’s yours.”

“Yeah, I get that. Just – what am I supposed to do with it?”

Lucifer shrugs. “Anything you want. Granted, it’s made of my grace, so it’s a powerful weapon in its own right. I would appreciate it if you didn’t use it on my brothers, though.”

“… You made an archangel-killing blade.”

“It does serve a similar purpose, yes.”

“Luce – for the love of-  _Why_ would you create something that can possibly  _kill_ you, then hand it over to me?!”

“Because I know you’ll use it for far more creative purposes.” Lucifer’s tone is mild, but judging from the dumbstruck disbelief on Sam’s face, his words hit home.

Sam pales, then flushes. “Are you seriously implying what I think you’re implying?”

Lucifer only smiles his patient little half-smile.

“Luce,” Sam’s agitated, tense. Eyes wide and pulse jumping just a bit too fast.  “Luce, I never wanted to actually  _hurt_ you.”

“And you won’t be,” Lucifer cups Sam’s face. “I trust you Sam, and I wouldn’t be offering this to you if I didn’t want it, too.”

Sam doesn’t answer. He leans into Lucifer’s touch, very determinedly not looking him in the face.  Lucifer’s hand slides from Sam’s face down to the nape of his neck, his back. Laying his palm flat against a small, twisted white line between his shoulder blades.

“These scars shaped who you are. Marked you as mine” Lucifer’s breath is soft against Sam’s ear. “Please. I’d like to ask you for the same favor.”

At that, Sam lifts his head. His swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Lucifer’s ice blue eyes steady on his face until finally, he nods. The hilt of the knife fits neatly into his palm.

“Sit on the bed.” Sam’s voice is quiet. The mattress is hard and springy beneath Lucifer, the sheets cool. Sam drops the knife momentarily to help him undress. His hands tremble as they strip off Lucifer’s shirt.

When Lucifer’s completely naked, Sam presses a hand to his chest. Spreads his fingers as if searching for the thrum of grace, or the echo of a heartbeat. He pushes him down, crawls between his legs. Takes the knife up again, and Lucifer’s never seen him look so lost before. His eyes on Lucifer’s look almost terrified. 

Lucifer reaches up, grasps the hand holding the knife. He kisses the tip, the blade icy against his lips.

“I trust you,” It’s barely a gentle murmur, but it’s enough for resolve to harden on Sam’s face. Leaning over Lucifer’s torso, the ends of his damp hair tickling his chest, Sam makes the first cut.

It’s shallow, an inch and a half long, barely slicing through the first layer of skin below his sternum. The cold sting makes Lucifer’s breath hitch, and Sam freezes.

“Don’t stop,” Lucifer exhales. Sam obeys. Deepens the cut with steady hands. Blood wells up, crimson drops beading the edges and sliding down Lucifer’s chest. Sam can’t take his eyes off them. There’s the shadow of something hungry in his eyes, and Lucifer remembers the sulfur reek of demon blood, remembers the thick scalding liquid sliding down his throat. Sam brings the knife down again, this time with none of the hesitation from before.

The second is deeper and longer, right below the first. Lucifer lets out a shaky gasp at the feel of his skin parting. Blood runs freely from the cut, dripping down his chest in thick rivulets, collecting at the hollow in his chest. Sam stares at it, mesmerized. His hazel eyes flick over to Lucifer’s. He can see shame on Sam’s face, as well as awe. But the hunger overrides everything. Slowly, he brings his lips to Lucifer’s chest, tongue darting out to taste the blood, gasping at the heat and flavor.

Lucifer hears it. He hears  _everything._ Sam’s unsteady breathing, the slight shifts of the mattress, Sam’s skin sliding over his, arousal curling warm and low in his gut. Sam presses kisses from the hollow of his throat to his chest, chasing the drops of blood oozing from the cuts. Suddenly he straightens up,  pins Lucifer down on the bed with his hips. Brushes his lips against Lucifer’s left nipple and with a quick flick of the wrist Sam drags the knife through it, bisecting it.

Lucifer arches involuntarily against Sam, a startled hiss escaping him at the sudden burning pain. But Sam holds his shoulders down with careful hands, and any instinctive resistance in Lucifer is stifled by his hot, wet mouth, closing over the wound and sucking.

Pleasure throbs through Lucifer, near-indistinguishable from pain. He can hear the soft, greedy sounds coming from Sam, and somehow that makes everything so much better and so much worse at the same time. He bites down on his tongue, trying - and failing - to stifle the moan rising in his throat. Sam pauses upon hearing it. It’s rough and human and so, so Lucifer that it makes Sam smirk as he bites down on the wound, hard.

The moan turns to a cry, and when Sam pulls away he’s grinning with bloodstained teeth, sweat beading his forehead, skin almost feverish when he grabs Lucifer’s chin and kisses him.

Sam tastes of mint toothpaste and blood. Lucifer chases the flavor down, the taste of himself in Sam’s mouth. The kiss itself is rough, messy, almost frantic. Sam’s the first to break it, to Lucifer’s chagrin. He shushes Lucifer’s soft moan of protest with a finger against his lips. His voice, after he manages to catch his breath and speak, is hoarse and slightly shaky.

“Turn over.”

Hesitation flashes through Lucifer for a moment, but he yields. Rolling onto his stomach and exposing his back, trying to ignore the almost painful pressure on his cock, the throbbing cuts on his chest. He twitches at the light tickle of the blade ghosting against his skin. Sam bends down, kisses the nape of Lucifer’s neck. His breath tickling the shell of his ear as he murmurs.

“I’m gonna make a big cut here. Are you ok with that?”

Lucifer exhales. Voice low and tense and halfway gone as he breathes out  _“Yes.”_

Sam’s hand grasps his, slotting their fingers together. He squeezes gently as he lodges the knife edge deep into flesh and muscle.

Lucifer cries out and screams _._ Shaking to pieces through his orgasm as  Sam carves angel wings onto his back.

They’re quiet together for a long while after Sam finishes. Lucifer half-floating in a haze of pain and bliss, his back to Sam. Sam grazing his lips over the already scabbed-over wounds. The knife lies forgotten on the floor.

There’s guilt weighing down on Sam again. Lucifer gingerly turns towards him, reaching up to kiss it away. Sam sighs, nuzzles his face into the side of Lucifer’s neck.   

“Thank you,” It’s hushed, just loud enough for Lucifer to feel rather than hear. Lucifer doesn’t answer, only smiles and rests his forehead against Sam’s collarbone. Sam shuts his eyes, and Lucifer wraps him in his arms, holding him close. The throbbing ache of the cuts fade as they begin to heal into twisted snarls of flesh. As Sam sleeps, Lucifer passes the night listening to the blood beating in his veins, feeling the quiet mortality of him rushing beneath his scarred skin.   


End file.
